


Cadence

by manic_intent



Series: Code of Ethics [3]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barebacking, M/M, No Plot, PWP, That bathtub fic inspired by twitter art, That's all there is, unsafe alien sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce was stalling. Clark knelt in the tub of his apartment’s tiny bathroom, arms folded on the ceramic lip, hiding his grin, glasses balanced further on the edge, watching as Bruce studied the sink and the mirrored cabinet as though it held the secrets to the universe. Bruce’s suit jacket was somewhere in the living room, and his blue shirt was rolled up to his elbows, but he was still far too dressed up for what Clark had thought was an obvious proposition. </p><p>“Bruce,” Clark prompted, as seriously as he could. It was proving surprisingly hard to keep a straight face when naked and chest-deep in warm water.</p><p>“I’ve always wondered,” Bruce said mildly, without even looking over, as though both of them were having a casual conversation over lunch. “How the hell do you shave?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cadence

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this https://twitter.com/noonrema/status/715141769529155585/photo/1 by the incredible @noonrema on twitter. Mm. I’m too lazy to write background story connecting the plot of BvS canon to the pic, so I’m just going to squish it into Code of Ethics ‘verse. Takes place sometime in the future after For the Record.

Bruce was stalling. Clark knelt in the tub of his apartment’s tiny bathroom, arms folded on the ceramic lip, hiding his grin, glasses balanced further on the edge, watching as Bruce studied the sink and the mirrored cabinet as though it held the secrets to the universe. Bruce’s suit jacket was somewhere in the living room, and his blue shirt was rolled up to his elbows, but he was still far too dressed up for what Clark had thought was an obvious proposition.

“Bruce,” Clark prompted, as seriously as he could. It was proving surprisingly hard to keep a straight face when naked and chest-deep in warm water.

“I’ve always wondered,” Bruce said mildly, without even looking over, as though both of them were having a casual conversation over lunch. “How the hell do you shave?”

Clark sighed. Trust Bruce to get distracted by the details. “Now? You want to know right now?” This was unexpected. Given that Clark had taken the trouble to persuade Bruce to visit, and then had managed to work them into this setup without any hiccups - maybe Clark should’ve known. Nothing with Bruce was ever going to be simple.

“Heat vision and a mirror?” Bruce ignored his obvious impatience.

“No… what? Where did that idea come from? I’d probably set fire to the _apartment_. Even if I didn’t melt a hole through the mirror.”

“Pity. That was my best guess.” Bruce carefully opened the mirrored cabinet with one finger, as though wary of some sort of hidden spring-loaded trap, and studied the contents with a little frown. “Do you pull out each hair with super speed?”

The laughter bubbled out of Clark before he could help himself. “Sounds painful.” 

“Or do you just not shave? Maybe you don't grow a beard? Hm no. That’s shaving cream, and it’s been recently used. Though it’s some godawful drugstore brand-“ 

“Are you seriously judging me on my _shaving cream_? That’s _it_. Come here.” Clark leaned precariously over to grab Bruce by the wrist, tugging him closer, grinning at the look of annoyance on Bruce’s face as he tried to twist free. Clark abruptly pulled harder, grabbing for Bruce’s shirt to direct his fall even as Bruce yelped and lost his balance, and the water was going everywhere and Bruce was sprawled over Clark on the tub, sputtering with outrage, shirt plastered down to his broad shoulders, his lush silver-streaked hair going awry over his savagely handsome face. Gods. He was _beautiful_.

“You,” Bruce growled, wriggling ineffectively, “Fuck you, my _shoes_ -“ 

“They’ll dry out. And you can probably afford another pair.” Clark curled his fingers around Bruce’s charcoal tie, leaning up, and Bruce bared his teeth and turned his cheek against the kiss, though he reluctantly allowed Clark to settle him awkwardly over his lap. 

“We could’ve done this in my place,” Bruce groused, though he was struggling with his shoes, tossing one out of the tub. Clark didn’t bother trying to help, mouthing down Bruce’s jaw, to the powerful arch of his neck. He could feel Bruce’s pulse quicken, hear his heartbeat pick up, and few things were as arousing as this, knowing how much he really was affecting Bruce even though Bruce showed no outward sign. That iron control, fracturing down only when bone-deep. 

“Mmhmm.” 

“You’re not listening,” Bruce accused, as the second shoe went spinning and fetched up against the bottom of the sink. 

“What’s wrong with my place?” 

“You seriously need me to tell you?” Bruce looked hilariously put out, fumbling with his belt. “Does this place even have a building permit? It’s _tiny_. It probably has _insects_.”

“I can’t afford much else on my salary _and_ before you offer, no, I’m not moving into your penthouse.” 

“This is going to be a tight fit,” Bruce pressed the flat of his palms pointedly against the narrow ceramic edges. 

Clark pretended not to understand. “You, or the tub?” 

“Cheeky,” Bruce growled, and there now was his surrender, if darkly amused, Bruce slinking over to kiss Clark properly, roughened palms sliding down Clark’s thighs in a deliberate, slow tease. Clark opened to it with a breathy moan, fumbling with Bruce’s belt, jerking it free, then dropping it with a gasp out of the tub as Bruce lazily closed his fingers around Clark’s stiffening cock. 

“Always breaking my things,” Bruce drawled, with a nod at the mangled buckle, and Clark pushed his hips impatiently against Bruce’s hand, tilting up his jaw to bare his throat to Bruce’s teeth. His moans were shuddering into hoarse gasps and Bruce was still silent, so forbiddingly composed. It would have been intimidating if Clark hadn’t already learned where the weaknesses lay. Buttons went everywhere as Clark pulled Bruce’s shirt open with a casual show of strength, and watched, grinning mischievously, as Bruce’s eyes dilated. 

The pants and boxers didn’t clear the rim. Bruce impatiently squirmed until Clark got them off, then he was rearing up onto Clark’s lap, shoving his thighs up against the sides of the tub. It _was_ an awkward fit, and Bruce seemed determined to be obnoxious about it, knees everywhere as he braced a palm against the wall and curled the fingers of his other hand into Clark’s hair, clenching tight. Clark bit out a moan between them, groping for the lube, on the tiled floor next to the tub, and Bruce swiped it out of his grip, rearing back, his smile feral, all teeth. Bruce was built large, bigger than Clark, and the room seemed crowded with them both within it, cramped close, and Clark loved the unashamed intimacy of this, larger than life. 

_You’re really here_ , Clark wanted to say, as Bruce opened the tube and slicked up his fingers, lifting his hips with a little shake out of the water, teasing again. _It seems like just yesterday when everything was broken._ But he pressed the words on his tongue as open-mouthed kisses against Bruce’s shoulders instead, the arch of his bicep, his arms. Bruce could be prickly where the past was concerned, his temper brittle. 

It was better for Clark to close his eyes and shut away visual feedback, which lied. Bruce wasn’t as unaffected as he looked. His heart was stuttering, jumping, and Clark could hear every moan that Bruce bit down, every whimper that died as near-inaudible hitches of breath in his throat. Clark bent all his enhanced senses to Bruce, listening to music scored by lust, made all the more exquisite by how private it was, played for and audible to just an audience of one. Bruce let out a subvocal whine and Clark shivered, hands splayed restlessly up Bruce’s drenched shirt. Teeth caught against Clark’s ear, and grazed down to his jaw, Bruce’s breathing wet against bone. Clark squirmed, agonised, and a hand went back around his cock as Bruce laughed, carelessly cruel even when tender. 

Prep seemed to take forever, but Clark was still anxious when Bruce finally lowered himself down with a grunt, grumbling under his breath about the tub. The fit was as difficult as Bruce predicted but it still stole his breath away, eyes squeezed shut, in case of accidents, hands clenched tight into fists over the edges of the tub, wary of his own strength. Bruce chuckled again, low and harsh, as he settled lazily down, even though the stretch probably hurt, even though he definitely couldn’t be comfortable. Lips pressed against Clark’s closed eyes, not in a show of affection but in defiance, a demonstrable lack of fear, because this was _Bruce_ , who didn’t seem to understand tenderness in any language other than artifice. Honesty from Bruce was always found deeper down, always violent. Bruce’s fingers scratched up over Clark’s shoulders, hard enough to bleed human skin, leaving only faint dents. Clark bit out a desperate sob. 

“Self-control, Clark,” Bruce said, his tone absolutely steady, betrayed only by his quickened heartbeat. “Come on. I don’t want to have to do all the work.” 

“I’ve hurt you before.”

“Haven’t broken anything yet,” Bruce pointed out, supremely indifferent, and he laughed as Clark urgently groped up to tug him over for a kiss, still nervous of his strength, bucking when Bruce rolled his hips, water sloshing. Thankfully, Bruce seemed happy to move on his own accord once Clark cautiously set his hands down over Bruce’s hips, and they made an uneven rhythm, Clark tentative, Bruce vicious, twisting until Clark nudged up just _right_ , then his face went briefly slack with pleasure and-

“Bruce,” Clark gasped, with sudden realization. “I’m not wearing a condom.” 

Bruce’s expression flickered briefly with annoyance. “It’s kind of blindingly _obvious_ , Kent. Trust me, I fucking _know_. Did you… did you just get _harder_?” he added, incredulous. 

Clark ducked his head with a groan, struggling with the hot rush of lust. “Sorry!” 

“Why are you sorry? Fucking just _fuck_ -“ Bruce’s words punched out into a ragged groan. “Fuck. Just shut up, all right? Shut up. You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Sorry,” Clark gasped, and started to laugh: it bubbled out of him despite himself, in hiccups and in coughs, and Bruce’s indignant glower made it worse. Hastily, before Bruce could react, Clark hauled them both up, shoving Bruce up against the wall, nearly barking his head against the low ceiling. Bruce hissed and braced a palm against the edge of the wall and, tucked his legs neatly around Clark’s hips, biting down on his lip, and Clark braced his feet carefully and drove in, shoving Bruce an inch up against the tiled wall, wrangling out a badly-stifled cry. Clark buried his mouth against Bruce’s throat, taking what he could, even all that Bruce tried to keep buried. It was the second broken-down wail, tucked down into a grunt, that drove Clark over the brink, layering wounded moans against Bruce’s skin. 

Bruce let out a surprised sound as Clark let him down abruptly and turned him around to face the wall, then he stiffened up as Clark knelt, spreading Bruce’s cheeks with his thumbs, licking up the cleft. “Fuck,” Bruce rasped, “That can’t be - _Clark_ you really-“ and then he was coming against the wall, helpless, his cry shut down against the wrist that he stuffed into his mouth. Clark heard it anyway. 

Clark was sleepy by the time they cleaned up and made it to the bed, far too relaxed to get bothered by Bruce’s grumbling about tiny cheap furniture, or whatever it was. Eventually, Bruce went quiet, sprawled on top, though his breathing didn’t even out to sleep. Clark listened, soothed, stroking a hand up Bruce’s spine, over the knots of scars, the dips and furls. Someday he’d get their stories out of Bruce. For now, this was more than good enough. 

“Piece of metal from the spaceship I arrived on Earth with,” Clark said finally, when Bruce shifted his weight. “I kinda. Sand the stubble off.” 

“Where’s the ship now? I never managed to trace it.” 

“Gave it to the President. It’s on loan to SpaceX. Think they’re trying to reverse-engineer the propulsion.” 

Bruce hummed. “That’s convenient. I’ll give Elon a call tomorrow.”

“What do you want with it?” 

“Relax, farmboy. I’m just curious.” Bruce prodded his nose. “My only other contact with alien tech was from far in the distance, watching a spaceship get blown up over Metropolis. And the government vacuumed all those bits up posthaste. Had help from you, I believe.” 

“Those ‘bits’ are in Area 51,” Clark agreed carefully, watching Bruce’s face. 

No twitch of grief, no anger, and his heart was steady yet; eventually, Bruce went silent again, and then slept, dozing lightly, cheek pressed over Clark’s chest. This was Bruce’s idea of forgiveness, leavened out in fragments, from a gruff ‘You did fine’ after the hearings to a kiss high up in the cold, on the cusp of a new year. Clark tickled his fingers lightly up through Bruce’s hair, then held him close, breathing out, and counted time by the slow cadence of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> And to think just a few hours ago I told someone on twitter that all my fics for BvS would probably all be fucked up ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Guess not. Twitter inspiration is merciless and random. :)
> 
> How does Superman shave? http://www.wired.com/2013/05/mythbusters-superman-shaving/  
> http://theweek.com/articles/463315/hey-gillette-already-know-how-superman-shaves
> 
> It was Mass Effect that taught me about the extra dangers of alien sex XD;; If you haven’t seen the vids before, google Mordin’s Safe Sex Talk - he has one for every alien romance option heh.


End file.
